


Slip Me a Note

by RockThaWriter



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bookstore AU, Fluff and Humor, M/M, this is going to have fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockThaWriter/pseuds/RockThaWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean's father persuades him to take up a job at a bookstore for the summer before college. It's all fun and games until Jean sees a weirdo who spends hours to decide on a couple books. Though no one but him actually finds Marco's behaviour all that strange. Maybe it just takes a while to get used to that freckled face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Freckled Weirdo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hachidorikun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hachidorikun/gifts).



Soon after I finished my final exams, my father advised me to pursue a job during the upcoming summer vacation. The idea was met with protest at first and coming from a person as ambitious as me, it surprised him. Throughout my entire senior year of high school, I kept myself busy by all means possible – I signed up for a gym nearby, I joined the art club, the creative writing club, the student council and gave some tutoring lessons in both English and German to earn some pocket money. In all honesty, the exhaustion caught up with my body by the end of the year and I anticipated the long hours of sleep and freedom of sunbathing in our small garden while drinking strawberry smoothies.

When my father advised someone to do something, it always ended up resembling more of a threat than a suggestion. It wasn’t wise to protest, not after I had shown him my capabilities. Therefore we came to an agreement after a short, hateful glare and a lecture – A job at a nearby bookstore.   

* * *

“Hello?”

“Good evening! Am I speaking to Jean Kirschtein?”

The soft, female voice sounded familiar. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m Mrs. Hamelin. You have recently applied for a summer job as an assistant and cashier at our bookstore at Morrison Street, is that correct?”

My eyes roamed the desk in search of a note pad and a pen. “Yes, I have.”

“Good! Mr. Kirschtein, you were accepted for the job. You will start on Monday.”

“That’s great,” I noted down the date and her name. “Thank you, Mrs. Hamelin."

“Please arrive around 7:30 AM to settle some remaining official matters and to clear up any questions. You will be schooled on your first day; there is nothing to be concerned about.”

“That’s understood,” I jotted down the remaining details and then I placed the pen down and leaned back in my seat. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”

We politely spoke our goodbyes until she hung up. My father leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“I got the job,” I answered his unspoken question with little enthusiasm and returned to my unfinished drawing. 

Out of the corner of my eyes I caught him smiling before he walked out the room once again. As I dunked my brush into the tainted water, I hoped to not regret this choice.

* * *

I had a habit of raising my expectations instinctively. Essentially, it fuelled my motivation and encouraged me to strut into any situation with an open mind.  While the method was excellent at the beginning, it often caused disappointment and therefore my motivation would decrease as well. Gradually I developed a constant look of slight annoyance on my face, which, according to my father, was the reason people refrained from talking to me. He didn’t count the students who would only ask for favours, throw a dismissive “thanks” at me the next day and disappear until the next problem came up. Throughout my senior year I served as a search engine more than a friend to anyone. I was determined to change my reputation during college.

I had too much to think about, as any other young adult did, but I preferred to drown myself in work rather than succumb to these ridiculously stupid concerns. I was a good student, I took care of a small white kitten and I rarely wasted my precious time. I didn’t share their worries about lovers and parties and friendship – these were all useless at my age anyway. My priorities were known to me and should I care enough to endorse in other activities, I would give it a try.

It would have been better to bring a book along, instead of reminiscing during the bus ride.

“Morrison Street,” announced a monotonous voice as the screen flashed the name in bright green letters. I slip the shoulder strap of messenger bag over my head, dusting the black fabric. While I scrolled through my music playlist on the way out, I bumped into someone.

“Fuck, watch it, dude,” hissed the voice back at me and my head jerked up to see the angriest teenager in the world. I muttered my apologies – he didn’t listen anyway – and walked past a pretty black haired girl. I only spared her a glance and discovered she accompanied that angry guy, so I paid little attention to her after that.

The bookstore was situated close to a café down the street. I stood before the wooden entrance door, marvelling over the beautifully carved woodwork as my hands traced every dent with caution.

“Mr. Kirschtein?”

I jumped slightly, withdrawing my hand. Mrs. Hamelin stood to my left side, sporting a flawless teeth revealing smile and gently pushing some dark hair strands away from her eyes.

“Yes!” I replied a little too hastily, but attempted to compensate for it by clearing my throat and straightening my posture.

“Mrs. Hamelin, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, offering a smile and holding out my hand in greeting.

“The pleasure’s entirely mine, Mr. Kirschtein,” she shook my hand, her grip surprisingly firm compared to her delicate features. “Shall we go in?”

After a prompt nod I slipped my hands into my jeans pockets, listening to the soft clicking of Mrs. Hamelin’s high heels. On our way to her office, I stared at the numerous shelves, all in perfect order. The job interview had been held in a small office outside of the library, therefore I hadn’t actually been inside before. The nostalgic atmosphere in the shop was certainly an attraction to customers. What the shop lacked in size it made up for with quality.

It took us approximately two hours to settle everything. The contract was signed and with the little knowledge I obtained after a tour around the bookstore, I found myself arranging the newest delivery of science fiction books at the appropriate shelve. Mrs. Hamelin advised me to stay behind the counter after I was done, for a couple of customers liked to stop by before their morning coffee.

She retreated into her office and as I kept stacking books, two guys arrived at the shop, both of which turned out to be my co-workers. The shorter one’s name was Connie, with his buzz cut and energetic aura. Connie was also an assistant, checking for deliveries and helping out customers. On the contrary, Berthold, the tall cashier standing beside me, seemed to be as quiet as possible, solely focused on his work.

I felt confident with my work after a couple of hours. Berthold helped me when I struggled to operate the cash desk. Connie encouraged me to speak to the customers more, which led to me receiving several comments about my two-toned hair and the undercut. A young boy, who came with his mother, pleaded her to have hair as cool as mine. That brought a smile to my face and I mouthed “Sorry!” to the mother, who simply waved the matter off.

“That’ll be 7.98$, Miss.”

The most interesting part about this job was the individual book choices. I created a mental bookmark whenever I came across an interesting book someone bought. Every purchase came with a free paper bookmark with the bookstore’s name written across it.

“Thank you, have a nice day!”

My eyes followed the customers as they strolled out of the bookstore. When they shifted back to the broad view of all the shelves and remaining customers, I noticed a tall guy with dark brown hair lost in a book from the YA fiction section. I leaned against the counter, watching as this guy read the first page, the middle page and the blurb of every book in that section, thoughtfully choosing those that interest him. An hour passed and I kept serving customers, though my thoughts remained on that brunet guy.

I had to admit I found that guy to be really weird. Who would willingly spend this much time on choosing a good book? The internet could be his best friend and this entire book searching ordeal would conclude much faster. Even Connie’s approach he dismissed with a friendly smile, while he continued to analyse every book as if it was a long lost treasure.

“Jean,” Berthold’s voice cut through my thoughts, stern and almost threatening, “Focus.”

“Ah… Sorry,” I replied, turning to the next person wishing to pay for a copy of 50 Shades of Grey and Twilight.

“Good afternoon, Miss. That’ll be 18.96$.” He couldn’t help but wonder why a pretty blond girl would spend her time reading bad fiction. I didn’t call myself an avid reader, but by now it should have been known that those books were so bad it should be illegal to read them.

“Thank you,” I handed her the change and smiled. “Are you a fan of Twilight?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, no, this is an anniversary gift for my girlfriend. She hates these books.”

My eyes widened, but I chuckled with her. “Well then, my deepest condolences to your girlfriend. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” she grinned, glancing to my name tag, “Mr. Kirschtein.” With the handle of the paper bag held by both hands, she almost skipped out the shop, her flower dress swaying.

When there was only a small amount of people in the shop, I decided to help Connie out with the dusting of the bookshelves. He stood on a ladder, the back of his brown shirt saying “Any questions? Ask me!” in black letters.

“Connie, do you need any help?”

“Nah, man, I’m almost done up here. How’s it going with the job?”

“Good, I mean… it’s nice. It’s rather relaxing.”

“Yeah, the atmosphere and the people do that to you,” Connie remarked, pushing an encyclopaedia back into its place.

“Say, Connie,” I began, watching out for any sight of that brunet guy. “Does that brunet dude always stay here for hours just trying to decide on a book?”

Connie carefully stepped down from the ladder, looking at me. “Occasionally. There are times where he comes in, gets a book and leaves again, but most of the time he just likes to explore, I’m guessing.” 

“Maybe he’s a picky reader… Did you ever catch his name?”

“No, I’ve never had that much conversation with him. One time he asked for a book called The Fault in Our Stars and we talked a little about the book, but I never caught the guy’s name. Sorry, man. He seems like a nice dude though.”

“He does,” I concluded, nodding my head in approval. Connie was a good co-worker and easy to get along with. I was about to leave again, when Connie caught me by the sleeve.

“Hey, wait. Did you see a girl with red hair and green eyes here today?”

I thought about the faces I’d seen today, but none of them fit the description. “No, not really. You could ask Berthold?”

“I doubt he allows his gaze to wander off as much as you do, Jean.”

“Hey!” I frowned, gently nudging Connie’s shoulder. “It was only that weird guy that distracted me, I’m usually very attentive.”

“Sure you are,” he rolled his eyes and my blood began to boil a little, “Listen, I’m going to go get these boxes to the storage room. You should go and join Bertl for a while. Maybe you can get him to talk?”

I sighed. “Fine,” I nodded, “I’ll make sure to look out for any green-eyed redheads!” he called after Connie, who already paraded away with the empty boxes underneath his arm. 

Berthold, or Bertl as Connie called him, was cleaning the counter when I arrived. I considered following Connie’s advice and starting some conversation with him, but obviously neither of us felt it was appropriate to disturb the comfortable silence surrounding us.  

Finally, the brunet guy from earlier approached the counter and since someone already stood in Berthold’s queue and I was free, he stopped in front of me.

Three books. He spent at least two hours to decide on three books. Fuck, that guy was weird.

I scanned the back of the books, my eyes remaining on the counter.

“That will be,” I began, but I stuttered a little the second I saw his face up close, “T-Twenty-five dollars, Sir.”

His hand went inside his pocket, before he placed the money onto the counter. As I slowly put the bills into the register, I heard him speak in this incredibly soft voice.

 

“Hey Bertl, how are things going?”

“Alright. Reiner might come over this weekend, so I’m looking forward to that. You, Marco?” 

 _Marco._  
  
I cleared my throat, still phased by the fact that Berthold comfortably spoke with Marco, a customer, about something rather personal. Perhaps they were acquaintances by any chance – after all, our town wasn’t particularly big.

The pounding of my heart resonated within my ear, which was something I only read books about. This guy’s tanned skin was covered in freckles, it was almost ridiculous.

“Here you go, Sir–”

 “–Marco,” he interrupted me, taking the paper bag from me. He quickly glanced to my name tag. “Thank you, Mr. Kirscht–”

“–Jean. Just Jean,” I interrupted him this time, smiling a little wider. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, Jean,” he said. “See you soon, Bertl!”

 

Fifteen minutes before my first day of work would end. I looked at Berthold when Marco was gone.

“What?” he deadpanned.

“You know him?”

“He’s a friend.”

“Why does he spend so much time choosing books?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “He never said.”

“You’ve never asked?”

Another shrug. “No.”

Seriously, did no one find this guy’s reading habits to be strange?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first contribution to the SNK fandom and JeanMarco in particular. It will contain lots of fluff and humour down the road. I struggle a bit with first person POV but writing Jean was surprisingly easy. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. His name is Butt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Most of all, I was ridiculous for biting back the grin and trying to solve these knots in my stomach.

On my fourth day of work the possibility dawned on me that any attempted avoidance of Marco might be entirely futile. While he spared me the embarrassment on the second day by standing in Berthold’s queue and paying little attention to the cashier shuffling away with a new delivery of biographies, I struggled to remain concentrated throughout the day. I had found my eyes shifting to the middle isle on several occasions, wordlessly admiring the way Marco’s brows furrowed and his lips pursed slightly as he studied the books before him. I adored how expressive Marco was when he read, the widening of his eyes, the slight part of his lips at every turning point and the brightest grin I had ever seen spread across his face whenever someone approached him.

No one felt more at home in the world of books the way Marco did.

Connie assisted me on the third day. Not directly, he didn’t know just how much of delight it was to stack Stephen King novels instead of stealing glances at the freckled guy, but I was inherently grateful. I tore off the plastic cover of the stack of ten books titled “Pet Cemetery” and cautiously rowed them up on the shelf.

“You’re so eager to work away from the counter today, Jean,” the short guy noted, nonchalantly rowing books on the shelf below mine. “Did something happen between you and Berthold?”

The assumption threw me off track. “No, it has nothing to do with Berthold,” I continued working, eyes away from Connie, “I like to be active and being a cashier’s not as exciting as one’d think.”

“You’re sure it has absolutely nothing to do with Freckles either?” It couldn’t be that obvious. “I saw how immersed in him you were yesterday.”

I stopped working for an instant. That instant sufficed as an answer to Connie. Stubborn as I was, I insisted it would be better to explain myself. “I’ve never seen someone being so comfortable around books. It’s kind of cool,” I paused, rubbing my thumb over the back of the book I was holding, “I should focus on my work, though. It’s more important. It’s the reason I’m here.”

Connie didn’t ask further. When the shelf was full, I took the box underneath my arm and walked to the storage room. I couldn’t afford to waste my precious time on things as ridiculous as that freckled guy. I sat down on the small couch in the corner of the room, taking my messenger bag off the rack. The Velcro was louder than necessary and the zip was no better. Perhaps the silence of the room just made it seem that. In my bag I found my sketchbook and a small, green notepad. After the second day I decided it would be wise to bring it with me for occupational purposes. I drank some water, ate my sandwich and flipped through the pages of the sketchbook.

I had at least three sketches of Marco.

One was drawn in profile, another from the front and the last one from the back. I would sit in my room after dinner and my mind would wander off to Freckles. At some point I probably decided it would be a genius idea to put that mental image I had of Marco onto paper. It was so weird that I remembered all the places his freckles were at. I did have a photogenic mind – according to my teachers, at least, I never believed it was more than good visual memory – so that may be the cause. Nevertheless, drawing Marco in all excruciating detail I could muster did not get him out of my system. Not that much of a genius move, huh, Jean?

Something told me my Marco sketching phase did not end there – and I was right.   

I placed my bag at its original position and returned to the counter. There he stood, right before me, with a smile so sweet I became genuinely it had no hidden intentions behind it.

“Hello, Jean,” he said, placing the four books he’d chosen to buy onto the counter. I felt his gaze on me as I scanned the books and the warmth in stomach pooled.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I replied, stern. Focus on your job, Jean Kirschtein. “That’ll be 34.95$ in total.”

“You do know it is perfectly alright to call me Marco, right?”

His voice was nice to listen to. It wasn’t drowsy, nor energetic; neither monotonous, nor excited; neither shy, nor playful; neither Berthold, nor Connie.

“I do, but I would prefer to rely on professional terms, Sir,” I admitted, packing Marco’s books into a paper bag. When I made eye contact with Marco again, his big dorky smile had faded into a modest, small smile that complimented his features much more than before.

  
“Perhaps with time, then.”

This really was ridiculous.

By the fourth day the avoiding manoeuvre was at an all-time high. Connie could have just as well left the bookstore and business would be going as smoothly as ever because of my enthusiasm for dusting and cleaning the children’s play section, stacking the science books and advising about ten desperate parents on which books would spark their child’s interest. Berthold was handling the cash desk pretty well on his own.

 

Whenever there were things to be dealt with in the section Marco stood in, I sent Connie to do it.

“Jean, are you for real, man?”

I blinked, dumbfounded. “What?”

He just stared at me, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in suspicion. I averted my eyes.  “I’m going to go get something to drink and see if Berthold needs any help, Connie.”

Without awaiting an answer I walked away from my co-worker, past Berthold at the counter and straight to the storage room. Truth be told, the further away from Marco I stayed, the clearer his image in my mind became. 

Last night I coloured one of my sketches of him. His skin was tanned evenly, the freckles scattered across his skin, the hem of his dark blue shirt fading into sketchy scribbles. As I sat on that small worn out couch, smiling at the warmth of Marco’s brown eyes, swiping my thumb across the thin lips, I realized that resisting my obvious interest towards Marco was useless. Eventually it would catch up with me anyway.

 

A knock on the door jerked me out of my thoughts. Berthold came in, holding his cell phone in hand. “Jean?”

“I’m here,” I replied, hastily pushing the sketch book back inside my bag, “Is something the matter? I was going to come out in just a second and–”

“Jean, I have to leave early today. I’ve talked to Mrs. Hamelin. She asked me if you could take over for the rest of the day.”

Standing behind the counter would mean I’d have to come in contact with Frec- Marco. I wasn’t sure if it was the greatest idea, but if Berthold had to go, there was no other choice. Especially if Mrs. Hamelin asked me to do it, then I would have to deal with it.

“Alright,” I rose from the couch, walking to the door. “See you tomorrow, then, Bertl.”

“See you,” he mumbled, grabbing his bag. I headed back to the counter.

 

“Thank you, have a nice day!” I cheered, smiling as I watched the customer walk out the door. The smile was wiped away from my face when I heard his voice again.

“You should smile like that more often, Jean.”

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I replied.

Marco leaned forwards, hands gripping the counter. I took his books, eyes still on him as I scanned the first one.

“Even if I could get used to you calling me Sir under different circumstances,” he hushed, left corner of his lips twisting upwards, “It’s _Marco._ ”

I stood steadily, rigid as a rock. Admittedly, that statement was interesting, but work was my priority.

“That’ll be 16.50$, _Sir,_ ” I emphasized, almost challengingly as I watched Marco’s brown eyes narrow. For a second, his gaze drifted lower, and then he straightened himself again, handing over the money as I gave him his paper bag.

“Thank you, have a nice day.”

“You too, Jean,” he replied, smiling sweetly again.

It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Most of all, I was ridiculous for biting back the grin and trying to solve these knots in my stomach.

 

* * *

 

Connie invited me to a cup of coffee after work. While I had no preference over tea and coffee, because I rarely enjoyed either of them, Connie could drink a gallon of coffee in one go and still demand more. As if he wasn’t energetic enough already; how did that guy sleep at night?

“You will meet Sasha today,” he announced, slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

I raised an eyebrow, “Sasha?”

“Well… Remember when I asked you if you’d seen a redhead with brown eyes? Sasha’s my best friend.”

“Alright,” I nodded, walking out the bookstore with Connie. The coffee shop was rather small and cosy, with people gleefully chatting.

Close by the window sat a girl with clearly dyed red hair, tapping away at her phone. I silently followed Connie over to the table and she seemed to be even more joyous than Connie. With a huge grin she got up and squeezed Connie tightly. When she released him, she noticed my presence and held out a hand really quickly.

“Hi! I’m Sasha, Connie’s bestie. You must be Jean, then?”

My eyes widened a bit and I tilted my head, shaking her hand. “Yes, I am. I guess Connie told you about me?”

“Ah, well, you see–” she glanced at Connie and seemed to change her mind, grin spread across her face, “–uh, yes. Connie mentioned the new guy at work and since I know Bertl already, I assumed you were Jean.”

I didn’t fully believe her. If Connie would mention me, it seemed a lot more like him to talk for hours about me. Then again, I couldn’t see why I should care, so I dropped the matter. We sat down, Sasha across from us.

“So! What would you guys like to get?”

Connie chose Café Latte, Sasha went for a Cappuccino.

I decided on hot chocolate.

 

There was a reason I agreed to go drink coffee with Connie. For one, I was genuinely alright with being around that guy, because despite all his talk about his obsession with RPGs and Pokemon, he talked to me because he wanted to be friends rather than ask me for favours. Secondly, since I didn’t have school anymore, I didn’t have to go to student council meetings on Thursday evenings. I had all the time in the world.

I also had an excuse for not drawing Marco tonight.

Sasha seemed nice as well. I found out she had to dye her hair red as a result of a lost bet with her arch-enemy Ymir. She spoke a lot about Ymir and her cute girlfriend Christa and as she described her I couldn’t help but think of the blond girl that bought Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey on Monday.

“Also, Bodt insisted we’d come over to his place sometime and play Monopoly.”

Wait, who?

“Butt?” I repeated, confused.

“Oh, no! It’s spelled B-O-D-T and we tease him for the fact that his last name is one of his best traits at the same time.”

They were talking about a guy with a nice butt. I didn’t have a great sense of humour, but the notion brought a chuckle out of me.

“I’d love to meet that guy. He sounds great if he tolerates people blatantly calling him Butt.”

Connie and Sasha shared a long look, and then they smiled viciously at me.

“Come with us as a surprise guest,” suggested Sasha.

“I think he’ll like you,” Connie added.

I hesitated for a moment, because I certainly wasn’t someone for social gatherings, but refusal was something neither of them seemed to understand. I gulped down the last of my hot chocolate, nodding my head once the cup met the table again. “Alright, I’ll go with you.”

Both of them broke out in a victorious “Yes!” and high-fives followed.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how much I'm grinning because of future events. If you want to, you can go ahead and tell me your theories about how this story will unfold, I'd be really interested! Also Jean is such a dork but the dorkiness hasn't even started yet. I call Connie and Sasha the Trouble Duo and you'll see why.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading!


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